The Calling of the Grave

Chapter 10

A few wisps of purple still clung to the heather, but autumn had already leached the colour from the landscape, cloaking the moor in dead greens and browns. It stretched as far as the eye could see, bleak and windblasted. The thigh-deep lakes of bracken were starting to die off, leaving nothing to break the monotony but house-sized rocks and thickets of impenetrable gorse.

A recent case had taken me to a remote Scottish island that if anything had been even more desolate, but there had still been an impressive sweep and grandeur to it. To my mind, this part of Dartmoor seemed brooding and oppressive, although I had to admit I wasn't exactly impartial.

I didn't have good memories of this place.

The sky had promised rain, but so far none had materialized. Despite the low clouds the sun kept breaking through, picking out the heather in startling clarity before being shut off once more. I'd made good time from London, except for a traffic jam on the M5. It was the first time in years I'd been this far west, but I found myself recalling parts of the route, recognizing villages I'd forgotten till then. Then I reached the moor itself, and it was like driving back in time.

I passed signposts for half-remembered places, landmarks that nudged rusty chords of memory. I drove by the grassed-over ruins of the old tin mine's waterwheel, where Monk's decoy had lured the press away. It was even more overgrown and looked smaller than I remembered. I felt the past thicken around me, then the road curved away and in the far distance I could make out the rocky jumble of Black Tor.

I slowed for a better look. Even though I'd been expecting it, the sight still brought back the chill mists and snap of police tape vibrating in the wind. Then I'd passed the turn-off. Shaking off the memories, I drove on to meet Sophie.

Oldwich was on the edge of the MOD training area, a sizeable chunk of the national park that the military had annexed for its firing and combat exercises. Most of it still granted public access, except on days when training was taking place.

Today wasn't one of them. I passed a warning post, but there was no red flag to indicate the area was off-limits. Oldwich itself was an odd place, apparently undecided as to whether it was a town or a village. It didn't seem to have changed much; there were newer houses on its fringes, but its centre was still as drab and unprepossessing as I recalled. The pebble-dashed cottages had always put me in mind of a coastal town, facing out to the empty moor as though to a static green sea.

A two-carriage train was unhurriedly pulling away as I drove by, slowly dragging itself across the moor as if exhausted. The Trencherman's Arms wasn't far from the tiny train station. The last time I'd been here the pub had looked dilapidated and depressing; now the roof had been rethatched and the walls were freshly whitewashed. At least some things had changed for the better.

The small car park was round the back. I felt oddly nervous as I pulled in and turned off the engine. I told myself there was no need, and made my way to the entrance. The doorway leading into the pub was low, and I had to stoop to avoid banging my head. Inside was dark, but as my eyes adjusted I saw it wasn't just the thatched roof that was new. The exposed stone flags were a big improvement on the sticky carpet I remembered, and the flock wallpaper had been replaced with cleanly painted plaster.

A few tables were taken, mainly by walkers and tourists finishing lunch, but most were empty. It took only a moment to see that Sophie wasn't there, but then I was early. Relax, she's probably on her way.

A cheerful, plump woman was behind the bar. I guessed the sullen landlord had gone the same way as the flock wallpaper and beerstained carpets. I ordered a coffee and went to one of the stripped-pine tables by the fireplace. It wasn't lit, but it was stacked with fresh-cut logs, and the ash in the grate suggested they weren't only there for decoration.

I took a drink of coffee and wondered yet again what Sophie might want. It had to be connected to Jerome Monk's escape somehow, but for the life of me I couldn't see how. Or why she'd contacted me. We'd enjoyed each other's company but I wouldn't have called us friends, and neither of us had made any attempt to keep in touch.

So why would she want to see me again after all this time?

My coffee had gone cold. Looking at my watch I saw it was nearly half past one. I frowned: after the way she'd sounded the day before I wouldn't have expected her to be late. But I wasn't sure how far she had to travel, so she could easily have been held up. I picked up the menu and restlessly flicked through it, glancing at the entrance every few minutes.

I gave it another quarter of an hour before calling Sophie's mobile number. At least there was a signal, which wasn't always certain out here. I listened to the clicks of connection, then I heard her voice: Hi, you've reached Sophie. Please leave a message.

I asked her to call me and hung up. Perhaps one of us got the time wrong, I told myself.

But two o'clock came and went with no sign of her. Restlessly, I checked the time again. Even if she'd been held up, I would have expected to hear something by now. Unless she was coming by train? I'd assumed she'd be driving but I hadn't asked. Pushing away my cold coffee, I went to the bar.

'Can you tell me when the next train's due in?'

The barmaid looked at the clock behind the bar. 'Nothing now for another two hours.' She gave me a bright smile. 'Late, is she?'

I smiled politely and went back to my table. But there seemed little point in waiting any longer. Grabbing my coat, I went out.

The sun had disappeared behind a high blanket of cloud, casting a diffuse, opalescent light as I walked the hundred yards to the train station. It was too small to have a ticket office, just two uncovered platforms linked by a short bridge. Both were empty, but there was a timetable on the noticeboard. The barmaid was right: there was nothing else due for a couple of hours. The only other train listed must have been the one I'd seen leaving as I'd arrived. Sophie obviously hadn't been on that.

So where was she?

A crow caw-cawed as it circled overhead; otherwise there was silence. I stood on the edge of the platform, staring up the line. The tracks were rusted but for the very tops, testament to how few trains used them. They ran straight, curving out of sight just before they reached vanishing point.

Now what?

I'd no idea. I wasn't even sure what I was doing there. I'd driven over two hundred miles for a woman I hadn't seen in eight years, and been stood up for my trouble. But although I tried to convince myself there was a mundane explanation, I couldn't quite believe it. Sophie had sounded desperate to see me: if she knew she was going to be late she would have called to let me know.

Something was wrong.

I went back to my car and took my road atlas from the boot. I had satnav but a large-scale map would give me a better feel for the geography of the place. Sophie had said she lived in a village called Padbury, which the map showed was several miles away. I didn't have her address, but it couldn't be that big. I'd just have to ask around until I found somebody who knew her.

Padbury was signposted well enough, but each marker seemed to direct me further and further away from civilization. The roads grew increasingly smaller, until I found myself on a narrow, single-lane track hemmed in by high bramble hedgerows. Bare except for dead scraps of leaves, they towered above the car like a maze. In snow or icy conditions the place would be completely cut off. As I shifted down yet another gear to negotiate a blind corner I wondered what the hell had brought Sophie out here.

But then I'd no reason to talk: I'd made a similar choice once myself.

Within another mile or two the hedgerows gave way to thickets of stunted oak. They seemed to soak up what was left of the daylight, and although it was only mid-afternoon I had to switch on my headlights. I began to wonder if I could somehow have missed Padbury after all, and then I rounded a bend and found myself in it.

And out of it again, just as quickly. It was more a hamlet than a village, and I had to carry on for another half-mile before there was anywhere wide enough to turn around.

I was already starting to have a bad feeling about this. I'd hoped for at least a pub or post office where I might find someone who knew where Sophie lived, but other than a few stone cottages there was only a small church, set back from the road. I pulled up outside but left the engine running. Now I was here it seemed ridiculous. Even if I could find her house, turning up on her doorstep unannounced like this was starting to seem more and more like an over reaction.

But I was here now. With a sigh I got out of the car and made my way up the church path. Ancient stone gravestones flanked it, many of them set flat into the overgrowing turf, their inscriptions eroded to illegibility. The church door was wooden, black with age and hard as iron. It was also locked.

'Can I help you?'

The accent was pure Devon, sounding like something from an older, more peaceful age. I turned to find an elderly woman standing by the church gate. She wore a quilted jacket and tweed skirt, and an expression that was as watchful as it was polite.

'I'm looking for someone called Sophie Keller. I think she lives in the village?'

She pondered, slowly shaking her head. 'No, I don't think so.'

'This is Padbury, isn't it?' I asked, wondering if I might be at the wrong place.

'It is, but there's no Sophie Keller lives here.' Her face brightened. 'There's a Sophie Trask, though. Are you sure you've got the right name?'

It was possible that Sophie could have changed it – or married – since I'd last seen her, but she'd made no mention of it when we'd spoken. Still, I might as well make sure. I agreed that I might have made a mistake and asked for directions.

'You can't miss it,' the woman called after me as I got back into my car. 'Watch out for the kiln.'

Kiln? That made less sense than ever. But I realized what she meant soon enough. I followed the road out of the village, passing the point where I'd turned around earlier, and saw the curving shape through the bare trees about a quarter of a mile ahead. It was a squat, inverted cone, built of the same rusty-coloured bricks as the house it stood next to. When I drew closer I saw it looked on the verge of collapse. A rickety framework of scaffolding clung to one side, either to repair it or prop it up.

I pulled on to the verge in front of the overgrown garden fence. The dusk was thickening, but the house windows were unlit.

Whoever lived here didn't appear to be home. A neat contemporary sign was fixed to one of the wooden gateposts: Trask Ceramics.

I almost drove away when I saw that. This had to be someone else. Yet Sophie had said she lived in Padbury, and according to the map there was only one in Dartmoor. You've come this far…

A stone-flagged path led to the house through a voguishly overgrown garden. A small orchard grew at one side, its scrubby apple trees now bare of leaves and fruit. The kiln sprouted on the other, tall and faintly sinister. The air held an autumnal odour of woodsmoke as I pushed open the gate. A vague sense of trespassing mingled with embarrassment that I was here at all. I told myself again how ridiculous this was, but there was also an uneasy sense of deja vu. I'd been in this situation once before, gone to check on someone to convince myself I was worrying about nothing.

I hoped history wasn't about to repeat itself.

Blown leaves from the orchard crisped underfoot as I walked up the path. There was still no sign of life from the house, its windows sheer panes of black. If someone was in I would simply make my apologies; if not… Well, first things first. I reached out to knock on the door.

And saw the freshly splintered wood where the lock had been forced.

All the doubts I'd had seemed to congeal in that second. The door was partly ajar, but I didn't push it open. The possibility that this could still be a stranger's house, that there might be an innocent reason for the smashed door, flashed through my mind, but I dismissed it. I looked around, half expecting to see someone behind me. But there was only the dark path, and the whispering branches of the trees.

The door creaked as I pushed it open with my fingertips. It swung back to reveal a darkened hallway.

'Anyone home?'

The silence was deafening. If I went inside I could be laying myself open to all sorts of trouble, but I didn't see that I'd any choice. If I called the police what would I say? That there were signs of forced entry at a house that might or might not belong to someone I knew?

If somebody's just lost their key you're going to look really stupid, I thought, and stepped into the hallway. Everything looked normal, but then I saw an old pine cabinet at the foot of the stairs, its drawers pulled open and their contents scattered. A vase lay shattered nearby, the broken pottery looking like pieces of bone on the floor.

'Sophie!'

I hurried inside, turning on the lights. There was no answer. I knew I should call the police but if I did I'd be told to wait outside until a car arrived.

That might be too late.

I quickly checked the downstairs rooms. They'd been ransacked, drawers and cupboards torn open and emptied, cushions flung off sofas and chairs. There was no sign of anyone so I ran upstairs. I noticed now that the carpet had wet patches on it, but I ignored it when I realized it was only water. All the doors at the top were closed, except for the bathroom. It was slightly ajar.

Through the gap I could see a pair of bare legs on the floor.

I rushed forward. A woman's body lay behind the door, blocking it so that I had to squeeze through. She was lying on her back, a towelling bathrobe fallen open. One arm was flung across her face, and a tangle of still-damp hair covered it further.

No blood. That was my first thought, but when I knelt beside her I saw that one side of her face was swollen in a livid purple bruise.

But even with that, and the fact that it was eight years since I'd last seen her, I still recognized Sophie Keller.

I moved aside the spill of hair and felt her throat. Her skin was cold but the pulse was steady. Thank God. I eased her into the recovery position, gently pulling the bathrobe down to cover her. There was no mobile reception, so I ran back down to the phone I'd seen in the kitchen. My voice wasn't quite steady as I called emergency

Hurrying back upstairs, I covered Sophie with a quilt from the bedroom. Then, sitting next to her on the hard floor, I took her hand and waited for the ambulance to arrive.